


kiss me with adventure (until i forget my name)

by possibilist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, fbi agent lexa, medical examiner clarke, minor linktavia, nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lexa is an fbi agent, clarke is a medical examiner, & they flirt over dead bodies, which is weird. also, they really didn't plan to fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me with adventure (until i forget my name)

**Author's Note:**

> this is so stupid & hap ur welcome 4 our trashy babies

 

**kiss me with adventure (until i forget my name)**

.

_but to come home each night,/ have a drink, go to bed,/ and be so deeply understood by you/ would be the greatest gift of my life._  
—clementine von radics, ‘a prayer’

//

You’re not really a _fan_ of this sort of thing—gruesome crimes and stuff—but you actually do like your job, even if it’s not too glamorous. You get called out to a scene because it’s one of the worst anyone has seen in a long time, and you’re not surprised when the FBI is there. Triple homicides with components of sexual sadism aren’t that common. Thankfully.

Your stomach flutters a little bit when you glance up from a very mangled, very gross body and see the slender form of SSA Woods—Lexa, you know—before you can manage to stop that, because that’s just kind of inappropriate and disconcerting to feel turned on right now. 

But then she walks over, and she smiles and says, “Dr. Griffin,” like your name is something she’s been looking forward to since the last time you saw each other.

“SSA Woods,” you greet, standing to your full height and taking a few steps around the bodies closer to her. You swap a few details of the case that you both know, and she makes plans to visit later in the day. Or, really, you’re doing the autopsies, and she has to come down to the morgue because it’s her _job_ , but. Still. 

The way her eyes crinkle a little when she smiles—and Lexa doesn’t smile very often—and the way she says, “See you later, Clarke,” and the way you know she knows your coffee order, or which sandwichyou like most from the shitty cafeteria if you meet for lunch, or the way she brushes your arm with her hand gently before she schools her features into a very intimidating mask again—those things make you think maybe she really does mean more than a begrudging visit to the morgue.

//

In a few weeks you invite her to get a drink after a really tough case—Lexa is a linguist and profiler for the Violent Crimes Division, and you can’t imagine how grueling her job must be—so she agrees quickly.

You’ve really only ever seen her in neatly pressed blouses and very neat, thin slacks, hair braided neatly, so when she walks into the bar, head held high, hair wild, in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, you think you might be in over your head.

But then Lexa orders a Cosmopolitan, gives you a glare when you laugh, and you buy her a shot of tequila (which always makes you slutty). You have a few more shots and another two drinks, and you don’t actually think Lexa is _that_ drunk, and you take her—she takes you, you’ll never remember later—to the alley and murmurs a little _Is this okay?_ and when you say yes, she kisses you.

You’ll never get tired of the way she kisses, you don’t think, like her body is wild, like she’d be willing to gnaw off her own foot if she was caught in a trap but like you’re the most special, spectacular thing she’s ever touched. 

Her lips are full and her hands are delicate, and you unbutton your pants and slip your fingers inside. You don’t know how to touch so little and so much of her at the same time, because there are stones skittering around you and the brick is rough against her back, and her head is tipped back and her pulse point smells like some kind of flower. Neither of you say anything, and you’re pretty sure she’s silent the entire time—which is unsurprising, really—and it’s cold and she comes, wet and hot, around your hand, untethered and beautiful.

She smiles at you afterward, kisses you, thanks you gently and seriously, and it’s so intoxicating she doesn't have to do much to make your body shudder in release. She’s strong and lean and holds you up while you catch your breath and then fix your tights, and you laugh a little.

“I’ve never had sex in an alley before,” she says.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?”

She shrugs, taking your hand walking back toward the bar. “I’ve had worse.”

//

She comes home with you two weeks later, after two beers after work. She seems tired—exhausted, really—and favors her left arm and when you kiss her and press her back against your couch she gasps a little in pain. 

You pull back and she shakes her head—“It’s fine, it’s nothing, I’m okay”—but you’re a doctor and you don’t trust her in the slightest.

She swallows and watches you closely—but doesn’t stop you—when you undo the buttons on the front of her blouse, tug it over her shoulders gently. You have a moment where you almost short circuit, because she’s covered in tattoos and she has abs and her collarbones make you _ache_ to touch them, but then you see a small square gauze bandage on her ribs that is starting to seep red.

You swallow and when you meet her eyes you almost can’t remember any sort of language, because she’s looking at you like she’s just let you wander around the caves that are left at the very center of another person—and maybe she has—and, _oh_ , this is what they’ve meant in all those books all this time.

But you’re _just fucking_ —or so you’ve both agreed multiple times since the alleyway, during quickies after drinks or on a lunch break in your on call room, clothes on, and Lexa leaves afterward with a nod of her head—and she clears her throat. “An unsub had a knife, I was caught off guard without my vest on.”

You make a little sound between sympathy and fear, which is about all you can manage in that moment, because you _know_ Lexa’s job is dangerous, but you can pick out a few more scars here and there, and it makes your chest ache.

Which you ignore, because Lexa is hurt and you can help her. 

“Did you get stitches?”

She nods once.

“Okay,” you say, and you reach and your hands are as steady as always when you gently tug off her bandage and examine the cut underneath. It’s not long but it’s deep, and you think she’s pulled one or two stitches near the end of one side, but she’s generally okay.

“Prognosis?” she asks, and it’s soft and makes you laugh.

“You’ll live, I think,” you say, “but I’m going to go get a new bandage. Don’t want you bleeding all over my shit.”

“Deal,” she says, and you go to your bathroom and get a new gauze pad. When you get back to your living room and she’s dozing off on your couch, still sitting with ramrod straight posture. You wake her and she startles, the tips of her ears turn red, and you smile and kiss her gently, and you put the gauze on and she very softly admits, “I think I’m too tired to have sex. I can go.”

“Lexa,” you say, and it’s _not good_ that your heart is racing, but—“You can stay. If you want.”

“Okay,” she says, and she changes into some soft clothes you give her in the bathroom, and it’s easy and lovely when she curls up against you in bed. 

//

These nights start to happen more frequently.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not dating?” Octavia asks, fiddling with her bulletproof vest straps in frustration. She’s been your best friend for ages and it’s kind of convenient you both ended up in the same city, and you’ll deny it forever, but you’re fucking _proud_ of her. She’s a media liaison and you think she’s pretty amazing, but whatever.

“We don’t talk about it,” you say, which is true. You do, however, talk about pretty much everything else: how your dad died, her abusive upbringing, Finn, the girl named Costia that Lexa was in love with before you—and why she became an agent—your guitar, all the tattoos spread across her skin. Little things, too, like what book she’s reading, what music you both hate, her opinion on the 140 character constraint on twitter and whether or not it’s changing contemporary communication, McDonald’s fries, which cafe in town has the best coffee, reality TV. She’s smart and funny and you’d expected her apartment to be sort of bare and modern, and in some ways it is—dark granite countertops and simple grey furniture and soft, clean lines, airy ceilings. But she has blankets kind of _everywhere_ , because she’s always cold, and she has a shelf of little knickknacks, and she has a big bed with a white duvet, and her fridge is full of a million fresh ingredients—where she finds the time to cook, you have no idea, but she makes you an incredible traditional Iranian dinner one night, and tells you about her grandmother, and you remember her like spices: sharp and warm.

Octavia laughs. “Well, are you sleeping with other people?”

The thought of someone else touching Lexa like you get to makes your stomach churn, but you shrug. “I’m not.”

“Why?” Octavia presses, leaning her hip against the counter in your morgue and crossing her arms. “And don’t bullshit me by saying you’re too busy or something. You were sleeping with, like, four people a week before you started—whatever it is—with her.”

You tip your head back and sigh. “I think I’m falling in love with her?”

“Yikes,” Octavia says, but when you glare at her, she’s grinning. “Come on, Clarke,” she says, then gives you a hug. “It’s not half bad, really.”

You don’t know anyone who loves each other like Octavia and Lincoln do—you’d been the maid of honor at their wedding, and you’re going to be their first child’s godmother, and you’ve watched them entirely _adore_ each other since the moment they met in university.

You’re spared from any more conversation when Anya—a very terrifying member of Lexa’s team—pokes her head into the morgue and has an update for Octavia.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Octavia says with a wink as she follows Anya—who glares—out of the room, and you lean back against the wall in something like defeat. There are like, four dead bodies in front of you, and you really should start having these conversations somewhere else.

//

“ _Jesus_ ,” you say, and Raven nods.

“The blast radius was fucking huge,” she says, climbing over some of the rubble to show you to some of the other bodies— _remains_ is a more fitting word, really. Someone says something to Raven—technically, you should be referring to her as SSA Reyes while you’re working, because she’s an agent on the bomb squad, but you met her through Octavia and she’s one of your best friends, so whatever. 

“Hey, I gotta go check something out over there,” she says, points, and you nod. You don’t think anything of it, really, because you _were_ sure they’d cleared the scene, or else you _definitely_ wouldn’t be here, and you’re smiling at Lexa across a pile a burnt bodies (still weird, but she’s so pretty) when, out of nowhere, there’s a _very loud_ noise, and heat skirting across your side, before you’re on the ground with about three quarters of Lincoln’s bodyweight on top of you.

Your ears are ringing and you’re pretty sure you’re not actually hurt, and Lincoln seems to be fine when he rolls over and apologizes, and for a split second it’s very calm, but then there are sirens and smoke and your mind races because your friends are there— _Lexa_ is there.

Lincoln helps you up and you can tell he’s doing everything in his power to not cry and also to not shout for Octavia, and you touch his arm. “I’m sure she’s fine,” you say, and he nods.

He gets orders and you both make your way out of the rubble because, clearly, the blast site wasn’t as secure as they’d thought, and your heart is pounding and your arm hurts and you’re pretty sure you have a concussion, but then you see Octavia walking—very purposefully—toward you, and she kisses Lincoln fiercely before hugging you, and your heart unclenches a bit at her touch. She tells you Raven is hurt but that she’s alive, and she’s going to the hospital and you’re going to head there too, because—“Clarke, your arm,” Octavia says, and the skin above your wrist is raw and burnt. 

“Have you see Lexa?” you ask, shaking your head, though, because—you love her. 

Octavia shakes her head, and you know she’s not lying. You’re not sure if you wish she was or not.

You’re sitting in the back of an ambulance Lincoln leads you to—next to Indra, who you’re pretty sure doesn’t like _anyone_ but Lexa and Octavia, and maybe Anya and Lincoln, but she tolerates they all like you. She’s getting a cut on her forehead bandaged and she nods at you and you want to ask—you desperately want to ask—and you’re about to, but then a soft hand is on your shoulder, and you look up and there’s Lexa, her shirt ripped and a big bandage wrapped around one of her thin, strong thighs, and her nose might be broken, but you can tell she just started breathing again the minute she saw you.

“You’re okay,” you say, and it comes out rough and laden with unshed tears.

She nods, and doesn’t say anything. When she touches your face it’s almost like you have never known anything before that moment, and there’s sun and smoke and it smells like ash, and the skin of your arm will heal, soft and pink, and Lexa will always have a bump on her nose and a scar on her thigh, but you will remember that day—that moment—as one so holy it felt like the beginning of the world.

//

It’s not _simple_ , though, sometimes, because Lexa is quite possibly one of the quietest, most stubborn people you know, and she tends to not communicate something until she _absolutely_ has to, which usually is a slew of rushed words, like if she doesn’t get them all out at once she never will again.

But it’s good, and you still don’t really talk about _it_ —what you are to each other—but then one night over leftover pizza and beer in Lexa’s pretty kitchen, she says, “Do you want to move in with me?” as nonchalantly as if she’s asking if you need her to throw anything in the wash when she’s doing laundry tomorrow.

You almost choke on your pizza but you down it with a swig of beer and you think of all the little things you love about her—her secret packs of cigarettes she has when she’s stressed, about her particular chapstick routine before bed, her Sunday FBI league softball games in the summer, how she comes home with more tattoos and they’re starting to be, somehow, about you. 

“You haven’t been sleeping with other people?” you ask.

“What?” she says, putting down her pizza. Her eyes are wide. “Of course not.” She swallows. “Have you?”

“No.”

“I thought we’ve been dating.”

She says it so, _so_ genuinely and seriously—and it’s been over a year—that you smile. “We never talked about whether or not we’re girlfriends, so I didn’t want to—assume.”

Your grin must reassure her, because she presses forward and kisses you gently. “You have been my girlfriend for months, Clarke Griffin. Hate to break it to you.”

You shrug. “I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world.”

She snorts in offense.

“I’d like to move in with you, Lexa,” you say, and she kisses you again.

“Great,” she says, “then you get to clean up dinner tonight.” She stands with a smirk and very unceremoniously starts walking to her bathroom and strips off her shirt in one very smooth motion. “I have a briefing in two hours, I’m going to shower.”

“You’re a _terrible_ girlfriend,” you say, and you suppress a groan when she laughs and pulls down her pants.

//

Your head is spinning and Octavia has to almost jog to keep up with how quickly you’re walking down the hospital corridor, because you’d gotten a call from Anya—“We’re at Memorial General because Lexa was shot in the chest,” is all you heard before you hung up and wanted to vomit. It was late and you were having wine with Octavia at her place because Bellamy was babysitting and Lincoln was working, and you’d been drunk enough you had to take a fucking cab to the hospital, and your world is kind of entirely off balance.

Gustus, however, a large, hulking man who is probably by far the friendliest member of their team, is standing calmly by the doors, and he catches you when you walk into the ER.

“Clarke,” he says, and you nod, and he looks either very _okay_ or he’s in shock or something. 

“Is she—” you don’t even want to think the word, let alone say it, but Gustus just smiles gently.

“She’s okay.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. “If you hadn’t hung up the phone, you’d have known that she was wearing a vest.”

“Oh,” you say, and you would feel stupid if you weren’t so relieved. You think you might cry, but you don’t really want to do that in front of other people, so you take a deep breath and let it out slowly until it doesn't shake. 

“I mean, she’s kind of small—don’t ever tell her I said that, though,” he says. Octavia nods seriously. “And she took six rounds from like thirty feet away, so she has some _nasty_ bruises and a few cracked ribs, but she’s okay.”

You nod and your hands are still shaking, but you follow him back to a room—Lexa is waiting on the final results of her CT scan and then she’ll probably be allowed to go home—and they let you inside.

Anya has her feet propped up on Lexa’s bed and she’s grinning—Lexa is apparently being pumped full of morphine, and she’s in a hospital gown and her chest is covered in bandages, wrapped neatly, and she’s just kind of— _rambling_.

It sets your world right again, and when Lexa sees you her eyes light up. “Hi,” she says, and her smile is soft and lovely. 

Anya hesitates a moment before she leans down and hugs Lexa quickly. “Glad you’re okay,” she says, before standing quickly and walking past you with a nod, and you take her seat, take Lexa’s hand.

“Hi,” you say.

“I got _shot_ ,” Lexa tells you.

“I know.” 

“Oh,” she says, then sighs. “Can we go home soon?”

“I think so,” you say.

“Good,” Lexa says. “I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Her brow furrows and she reaches toward you. “You’re crying.”

You shake your head and she wipes under your eyes messily, grimacing when she reaches too far. “I thought—I was scared.”

“I’m invincible,” she says, her smile crooked, and she takes her hand, suddenly more sober than you’d given her credit for, “didn’t they tell you that?”

You shake your head and your laugh is laden with tears, and you say, “Marry me.”

“I’m kind of high right now,” she says. “So say that again?”

“Alexandria Woods,” you say, “marry me. Please.”

“Okay,” Lexa says. 

“Yeah?” you ask, and you’re so, so happy in that moment you start to cry again.

“Yeah,” she says. 

You kiss her, and you laugh when she groans in pain when she can’t wrap her arms around you, and you help her home a few hours later. The bruises on her skin are immense and they’ll take weeks and weeks to heal, but they’ll look like galaxies, and you’ll always remember them being reaccepted into her body, piece by piece, and you’ll love her like she’s made of stars.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @possibilistfanfiction.tumblr.com


End file.
